Now I'll Tell You Everything (Alice) (36 page)

“Mrs. Ryder’s comes in a little box,” Patricia said.

“Oh,” I said. “That kind. Were you and Mindy going through her mother’s things?”

“No. Her mom circled it in a catalog and it came in the mail. What’s it for?”

I rummaged through my spice drawer, stalling for time. “Some women use it because it feels good and relaxes them,” I said.

“Oh,” said Patricia, and continued chewing. Then, “Are spareribs the ones we can eat with our fingers?”

Yes, my darling daughter,
I wanted to reply.
You may eat them with your fingers, with your feet, in your chair, or on the floor.

“Those are the ones,” I said.
Thank you, thank you for not asking any more questions.

Oh, God, I remembered some of the questions I used to ask Dad and Lester at the dinner table, because I felt safe asking. And how patient they were—Dad, anyway—though I embarrassed Les to death. Payback time? I hoped I’d handle things as well as they did.

*  *  *

We were often invited to receptions and dinners at IBM functions, and when I possibly could, I went with Patrick. I enjoyed dressing up and accompanying him—Patrick splendid-looking in his three-piece suits and occasional black tie. Sometimes I wondered why every woman in the corporate office wasn’t mad about him. And then I discovered that one of them was.

She was an ash blonde, a little bustier than I am, had great legs, and though you wouldn’t call her a beauty, she was certainly attractive. She spoke with a slight accent—Austrian, maybe. There was something about her eyes when she talked with Patrick, something about his voice when he spoke to her, that made me take notice. I knew they had gone on trips where three or four executives traveled together. But then I had long ago realized that Patrick would always be surrounded by admiring women, and when I worried, I’d remember his words:
It’s forever, Alice.

After his next trip, however, when Helene was along, he
seemed different when he got home. More quiet. Why is it that when you desperately want to talk with your husband in private, the kids seem ever present, as though they can tell? Several times that evening, I thought perhaps now was the time to ask what had happened, and always Patricia or Tyler interfered. I thought Tyler was asleep when he came downstairs upset because he’d forgotten to do his arithmetic homework, and the book had to be found and he had to be helped.

Then Patricia, who had gone upstairs to bed, decided she was hungry and came down to make cinnamon toast. And instead of taking it up to her room as she usually did, she brought it into the living room where Patrick and I were sitting together on the couch and plunked herself down across from us.

“What’s wrong?” she asked, her mouth full.

“Nothing. Why?” I answered.

“Why are you watching me? All I’m doing is eating toast,” she said.

“I guess I was wondering why you didn’t take it up to your room,” I said.

“Oh, I get it. You want to have sex,” she said.

“What?”
said Patrick.

But she laughingly picked up her saucer and went upstairs.

“Kids!” Patrick said, smiling a little. But after a few general comments before we could really discuss anything, Patricia was back down again to put her plate in the sink and ask if someone could drive her to school early the next day. It was all I could do not to yell at her to leave us alone.

Finally, when we were sure they were settled for the night, Patrick didn’t wait for me to ask. He reached over and took my hand, and I felt dread welling up inside me.

“I’m feeling pretty unsettled about something,” he said.

“I know,” I told him as lovingly and calmly as I could. “I can tell.”

He smiled again. “I can’t keep anything from you, can I?”

“Why would you want to?”

“I guess I don’t.” He tipped his head back and gave a long sigh till it seemed all his breath was gone. “In Seattle,” he said finally, “the others went out for the evening, and I found myself having dinner alone with Helene.”

“You
found
yourself?” I questioned, and instantly regretted the sarcasm in my voice.

“Okay. Correction. I invited her to have dinner with me. The others were going to a steak house, and I’d had steak two nights in a row and wanted seafood. Helene said seafood sounded great to her too, so I invited her to go along.”

I waited, my chest feeling heavy and tight.

“Nothing happened, Alice. Nothing overt, anyway. But it was a long dinner . . . I liked the smell of her perfume and . . . at one point I did reach over and touch her hand. I told her I found her very attractive, and she said she’s attracted to me too.”

Anger stirred inside me, and I had to struggle to keep it down. Looking at Patrick’s hand—imagining his fingers on hers, possibly caressing her thumb—almost made me sick.

“But I reminded her that I’m married,” Patrick continued. “And she said, ‘Yes, I know. A pity.’  ”

I closed my eyes for a moment, hating the woman, but knowing that the worst thing I could do right now was lose my temper. How many other husbands would even tell their wives about this? Didn’t Patrick get points for being honest? When he didn’t say any more, I said, “And . . . ?”

“And that’s about it. She’s married too, but they’re separated. Her husband’s evidently been talking divorce for a long time, but neither of them has acted on it. She did say that . . . that sometimes affairs can actually help a marriage, put some spice back into it.”

That really got to me. “That’s about the worst excuse I can think of, Patrick. So every time she makes love to her husband, she thinks of you and gets off on that? And when you make love to me, you’re mentally caressing her instead, and that will strengthen our marriage?”

“I didn’t say I agreed with her,” he said, and his voice had a note of defensiveness in it, so I kept quiet and let him talk. “I just said, ‘Well, I’ll sleep on that,’ and she said, ‘With or without me?’ ‘Without, I guess,’ I told her. So . . . we said good night. I kissed her forehead, and we went to our separate rooms and stayed there. But I just . . . I don’t like to keep things from you. You and I agreed that we wouldn’t.”

We were still holding hands but they felt wooden. I desperately hoped I would say the right thing: “So that’s the end of it?”

“Yes. But I . . . I was really tempted, Alice. I don’t quite know what to make of it, and I know there will be future trips where she’s included.”

There was silence between us, but my brain was reeling. Was he asking my
permission
? What I
did
know was that if Patrick was going to be faithful to me, it had to be because he
wanted
it that way, despite his temptations, not because I made him promise.

“I can’t make up your mind for you, Patrick. The decision has to be yours,” I told him finally.

“I know.”

“Have you asked yourself how you would feel, or how it would affect our marriage, if
I
had an affair with a coworker?”

Patrick glanced over at me. “I’d probably feel horrible. I know I’d be jealous. And I don’t
intend
to have an affair, with her or anyone else. But I’m not one hundred percent sure that if the opportunity came again and circumstances were right . . .”

“The opportunity will always be there. You know that. And what are the ‘right’ circumstances for breaking our vows?”

“I know, I know.” Patrick tipped back his head again let out his breath, then straightened up. “I’m talking like an idiot. Looking for justification, I guess. I’d hate myself if I did it. I want to be the kind of husband you can trust.”

I closed my eyes momentarily, almost too frightened to speak. “But you really
want
to sleep with Helene?”

“Listen. Probably every man wants every attractive woman who comes along, and maybe vice versa, I don’t know. That
doesn’t mean I’m going to do it. But this particular night was different somehow, and it surprised me. To tell the truth, it scared me.”

I rubbed my thumb over the top of his hand. “I guess I’ll have to say it scares me, too. Because if you go down one road, Patrick, you can’t go down another. You can’t undo it.”

He didn’t answer.

“And while I can understand that you’d be tempted—Helene
is
attractive and she obviously likes you—and while I might even be able to forgive you in time, I’m not at all sure I could forget. I’m just afraid that . . . that things would never be the same between us again, no matter how hard we tried. My resentment would keep cropping up, and I’d take it out on you in other ways. That’s what really scares me.”

He didn’t answer. Just drew me to him and we kissed. There were tears in my eyes. “Patrick, I love you so much,” I said.

“I know,” he said again. “And I don’t ever want to do anything that would hurt you.”

*  *  *

In a way, I guess, things are never quite the same again after a confession like that. For a while, even though Patrick and I were loving and gentle with each other, the fact that he was that attracted to Helene was a weight on my heart. My mind kept drifting to him all day at work. Was he talking to her right now? Having lunch with her? Would she actually proposition him sometime and would he accept?

At work, Phil noticed immediately that I was upset about
something. One day after school we were both working late, and I was in a panic because Patrick and Helene and six others from IBM were flying to Tulsa for a conference and would be there all week. I couldn’t keep my mind on my job and realized I was copying the wrong things on the copier. Suddenly I felt tears running down my cheeks. I’d thought no one had seen, but Phil had.

The next thing I knew, he was walking toward me. “Alice,” he said, “what’s wrong?” and he put one arm around my shoulder. “Tell me.”

I thought how satisfying it would be if Patrick knew I was desirable to other men, if he realized that
he
had better worry about
me
. Then I asked myself,
Which do I want more? To get even and really hurt him? Or do I want my marriage to work?
And I knew without a doubt: make it work.

“I’m okay, Phil,” I said, backing gently away from him. “Don’t you ever have one of those days where it takes only one small thing to set you off? I’ll feel better tomorrow.”

“Sure?” he asked.

“Trust me,” I said, and went back to the copier.

A wonderful thing happened just before school started the following September. I was offered the job of supervising the counseling staff of all the county’s middle schools. It meant I’d be going from school to school consulting on various problems, writing up reports, working out schedules, and attending meetings.

The problem with being promoted is that you’re often taken away from what you love to do most and put in charge of other people who get to do the best stuff.

“What should I
do
?” I asked Patrick. “It’s a great step up, and the pay is good, but . . .”

“But you’ll miss working with students,” he said. “Tell them the truth.”

So I did. The miracle was that they wanted me anyway and said I could still do part-time counseling at my old school. So I accepted, and the family decided I should have a party. It was weeks before we could all get together, but when it was time, Patrick’s parents even flew in from Wisconsin for the occasion. It seemed strange to be celebrating me for a change, not Patrick.

“Hey, Al,” said Les. “Nice going!”

“I’m so proud of you,” said Dad, hugging me. Sylvia hugged me next.

Tyler had made place mats for the table, with pictures he had drawn of me on each of them—as a mother holding a baby, another with a crown on my head—and Patricia made a pineapple upside-down cake, my mother’s recipe. Patrick, meanwhile, had grilled steaks for all of us, and it was a festive meal. Mine was a small accomplishment compared to Patrick’s many promotions, but I had so few that perhaps this is why everyone made such a fuss.

“I can’t tell you how many times I talked to a counselor about a student when I was teaching,” Sylvia said to me. “I always got such good insight and suggestions.”

“I probably learn as much from the students as they learn from me,” I told her.

When I’d found out that Les and Stacy had come in two days earlier and were staying at Dad and Sylvia’s, and then when Patrick spent most of Saturday over there, I suspected something was up.

And now, as we cleaned up the dishes, I noticed whispers
being exchanged, and Patrick invited us all to the family room for a special presentation. I immediately looked around to see who was missing—if the kids were about to perform—but the children looked as surprised as I was. The chairs and couches had been turned toward the TV, so I sat down with Patrick on one side of me, Dad on the other, Patricia and Tyler at my feet, and suddenly the strains of Vivaldi’s
Four Seasons
filled the room. The screen lit up and we read:

ALICE KATHLEEN MCKINLEY LONG: THIS IS YOUR LIFE

As told by your brother, who is not entirely well

The roar of laughter served as prelude to what was to come. As the homemade video continued, I realized now what Lester and Patrick had been up to at my parents’ home—that someone had gone through all the old photographs on Dad’s shelf, the girlhood scrapbooks still in the attic, the boxes of photos waiting to be sorted here in my office—and I surrendered myself to the fun, as Lester’s recorded voice provided the commentary.

While one of Dad’s much-loved pictures of me as a baby asleep in a laundry basket, in nothing but a little shirt and diaper, appeared on the screen, Les intoned in his most dramatic voice, “Born on May fourteenth to a poor but honest musician and his wife, little Alice Kathleen McKinley had only the clothes on her back and a laundry basket to serve as her crib. But she was loved.” The children shrieked with laughter.

Lester’s voice continued: “Though the hardworking parents
tried their best to keep the family clean, water had to be hauled in from the well, and there was no money for soap. Many times, unfortunately, it was difficult to keep little Alice clean.” And there I was in my high chair, trying to feed myself, with strained spinach and beets all over my face, my tongue sticking out one side of my mouth.